


Consign to Oblivion; or The Lady with a Gash on her Forehead

by little_box_of_flower_pots



Series: Unforgettable (that's what you are) [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, also micah gets punched on the first chap, at least its here now, im sorry for anyone who was waiting for me, this took me way too long to write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 16:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_box_of_flower_pots/pseuds/little_box_of_flower_pots
Summary: In May of 1899, after the terrible aftermath of Blackwater, the last thing Arthur Morgan would expect to see is a familiar face from years ago. She remembers him, but she doesn't where she's been right before their reunion....





	Consign to Oblivion; or The Lady with a Gash on her Forehead

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, did I get lazy on this one? I hope those who liked my previous prologue are happy to see this. I'll try my best to be more frequent in my uploads. I have an entire story in my head that has yet to be written, so bear with me, guys.

**May - 1899**

_ What a fool I am . . . _

The day only began but it already felt over for Arthur Morgan. 

_ That letter . . . that damn letter . . . _

To wake up and receive that letter from Mary was something he could not have expected nor brace for. A Mary he once loved true, one that he knew as Gillis and not Linton. A Mary that even some members of the gang groan to hear from as much as he does. Though unlike him, they don’t wish to take it back. 

By the afternoon, the weather cleared from the earlier rains that soaked his jacket and muddied his boots. Normally that wouldn’t bother him, but after spending the morning running to Mary, then running after Jamie, he felt it more than miserable about it. 

Hope. That was his mistake. He had hope . . . 

His horse, on the other hand, had something else . . .

“Easy, boy! Easy!” 

For a horse, he certainly didn’t act like one. If anything, Alfie strangely reminded Arthur of his dog, Copper, so many years ago. An over-eager thing ready to strike whatever caught its attention. The stable keeper in Valentine certainly warned him of this.

“Yeah, Alfie’s an . . . interestin’ one, to say the least,” he told him inside the barn a couple of days ago. “I have never met a mustang like him. To be honest, I still have no idea if he’s broken in or not.” 

Alfie was a five-year-old, bay colored mustang with a questionable personality, or says the stable keeper. 

For starters, he wasn’t even in the stables with the other horses. 

“Alfie does whatever it is that he pleases,” he continued with a sigh. “We have tried more than a handful of times to drag his stubborn ass in here and he has nearly bitten and kicked all my men, includin’ myself. He’s dirty all the time since he loves to roll in the mud and grass like some damn pig and hates being brushed and cleaned. We have to distract him with food to even get a hold of him most of the time. At this rate, if someone doesn’t get him off our hands, I’m sellin’ him to a glue factory.” 

Arthur had no idea what to say for a good moment. 

And he didn’t have to as he’s cut off by the sound of loud neighing and yelling from outside. 

“Goddammit, it better not be him again!” the stable keeper ran out and Arthur followed. 

The scene outside consisted of two men, a knocked out boy face down in the dirt and one very rambunctious horse. 

“Take it easy, boy!” 

“Alfie, calm down!” 

The mustang was kicking, bucking, shaking its head. His hooves dug into the mud as he fought against the reigns that dragged him down by desperate hands. The two men are thrown off their feet and join their younger coworker on the ground. 

“God’s sake,” the stable keeper ran to his helpers, leaving the rowdy horse alone to its own devices. 

That was until Arthur took advantage of his situation. 

“Easy boy, easy!” 

Arms raised with palms open, he carefully made his way to the mustang, continuing his gentle murmurs. It looked to be working; the horse began to calm. As soon as he was close enough, Arthur takes a hand and pats the horse on the neck with a friendly touch. 

“Easy, Alfie. Everything’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” 

And then it was quiet. Alfie whined and snorted and soon began to rub its snout against Arthur, much like an overtly affection dog in need of attention. He even knocks his hat off his head and nearly himself to the ground. Arthur started laughing. 

“Well, I’ll be damned . . .” It was the stable keeper. His two men were also on their feet, now holding up their unconscious younger coworker between themselves. The stable keeper was more than shocked. “How in the hell do you go on and do that?” 

“Do what?” Arthur raised a brow. 

“That!” He gestured to the horse. “I’ve never seen anyone remotely tame that unruly thing! It’s like some damn miracle!” 

“Really now? He looked like he just needed some attention.” It was true. Alfie’s attention never left Arthur’s. 

The three men (not to mention the unconscious boy) looked at each other and spoke in whispers to one another. After a quick moment, they turned back to Arthur. 

“What you say, friend?” asked the stable keeper. “Would you consider takin’ this mustang?”

Arthur was dumbfounded and lack words for a second. 

“Ah, depends. How much you offerin’?” 

“He’s free! Just please! For the love of God, take him off our hands!” 

Hosea got a good kick out this on their way near the Grizzlies the same day.

“I don’t believe you! You’re pulling my leg!” 

“Oh, believe me, old man. I’m not that creative to come up with somethin’ like that. And you’ve seen how this horse has been actin.’” As if on que, Alfie startes bucking and braying, nearly knocking Arthur off. “Easy, boy. Easy!” 

The ride with Hosea to hunt for the legendary bear was an adventure all on its own. 

  
  


* * *

  


The sun began to make its late arrival as Arthur made his way back to camp. Just as he slips off the saddle and hitches Alfie to the post, he hears a distinctive voice call for him. And its full of optimism and faith. 

“Arthur!” Dutch walks over to him, “I’m so glad you’re here. We were just about to leave.” Gesturing behind him stood John and Micah. 

“Where to?” Arthur said, pushing back a sigh. 

“We caught of rumors concerning Colm O’Driscoll and a French arms dealer. Apparently, this dealer has been supplying weapons to him and his gang and that their deals have been taking place at a cabin just west of Valentine. I was thinking we could go take a quick visit to this Frenchman, and maybe _ coax _ him into giving us some information.” As Dutch spoke, he and the rest of the men packed their supplies on their respective horses, saddled up, and were ready to go. Eager hands on the reigns, Dutch had that spark in his eye again. It was one Arthur had grown up seeing and always took for a sign of things to come. “Like to come with us? We could use another gun.” 

That sigh looked like it wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Sure.” 

  


The cabin was located as Dutch said it was to be. It was just a ways outside of Valentine, hiding deep in the woods, nearly overlooked by the group. 

When the men got off their horses, the signs became obvious. 

The cabin looked abandoned. Its entire infrastructure was neglected by years of unrelenting weathering and simple abandonment. Any signs of life anywhere were only horse hooves prints and boot marks in the dirt, a couple of cigarette butts, and a scattering of bullet casings. The latter led them to the front door. Or what was left of it. 

“Shit,” a now no longer happy Dutch mutters. The men quickly armed themselves, guns cocked and ready to fire. Dutch takes the lead as they enter. 

The inside was in shambles. Furniture was turned over and in pieces. Holes decorated the wooden walls and floor at nearly every turn. The air reeked of smoke, gunpowder, and blood. In the other room, a body was found. It was the presumed, mutilated body of their French arms dealer, left alone, bleeding all over the bedsheets. 

“Shit!” By now Dutch’s patience and optimism were gone and in a huff, he leaves the cabin. Micah tails closely behind him.

Arthur and John only shrug at one another, holstering their guns and make the most of it, searching the rest of the cabin for anything of value. 

“I’m starting to think,” John said, opening a beat-up chest of drawers, “that this man may have been robbed.”

“You don’t say?” Arthur chuckles. 

“Dare I do.” 

After giving a quick sweep under the bed and then searching the body, Arthur was ready to call it quits as they leave the bedroom and back to the living. That is until he spots something on the ceiling. 

It was a long string of rope that unhung from what looked like a door on the ceiling.

“Hey, there’s a door to the attic.” Taking his revolver out once more, Arthur tugs on the long string, opening the door and a ladder falls out. “Be right back. I’m gonna give it a quick sweep.” 

“I’ll be here,” John waves a hand, barely paying attention. 

Shaking his head, Arthur makes it up to the attic. It appeared to be empty as the rest of the house, though judging by all the dust he suspects that nothing was really ever up here to begin with. Only more furniture, mostly cabinets that held nothing but uselessness. Two small windows on either side let in light from outside, beams piercing the darkness of the room right in the middle but couldn’t reach the far sides. 

On his feet, Arthur sees a pair of boot prints in the dusty ground. The pair circled in the middle right in front of the window as if they had nowhere else to go and only traveled back to the attic door. Another pair, however, was smaller than the others, went somewhere else. They weren’t even boot marks, they were bare feet. Traveling to the middle, they went to the window that faced the front entrance and then went to the other side of the room where the dark blanketed it. 

There were no tracks indicating it ever came out. 

In position, Arthur takes his time walking to the other side. He tried to get his eyes used to the stark darkness, still blinded by dusty light. This doesn’t happen as he is unable to react to a figure lunging after him. 

He’s nearly tackled, only barely getting his footing before grabbing the figure and pushing them into the light in the center. Things are happening too quickly. He tries to get to his gun that he dropped in the tackle, but a swift punch to the jaw stops him. A kick to the center of his chest gets him off his feet and on his back. The sound of shotgun cocking and the black end of a barrow in his face stops him. 

He closes his eyes and waits. 

And nothing happens. 

Taking a peak, Arthur sees the figure above him, now drenched in the center’s light. 

They were much smaller, thinner than he was. He suspects it was a young man, a boy. Maybe a girl? It was hard to tell as their face was covered by a bandana. Their eyes were glued to his, wide with raised brows. They had lowered the gun in their hands. 

“A-Arthur . . ?” He almost missed it, their voice low and quivering.

“Arthur . . . It’s me . . .” the person pulls the bandana down.

“. . . (Y/N) . . ?” 

Before she could speak another word, a loud crack sounds and she falls over, nearly landing on top of him. 

“Arthur!” It was John.

“Christ, Marston! What the fuck?!” Arthur scrambles to get up to (Y/N). She was out cold. 

“What do you mean what the fuck?! They were just about to kill you and I knocked ‘em out with the butt of my gun!” 

“She wasn’t going to kill me!” 

“‘She?!’ What do you mean she?” 

“It’s a woman, John! Now shut up and help me get her down and outside!” 

They struggle to the knocked-out body down the attic ladder, John nearly dropping her on the way. Arthur carries her out, taking an arm under her neck and other under her knees. 

Outside, Dutch and Micah were waiting for them. 

“What the hell?” Dutch says as Arthur puts (Y/N) on the grass. “Who is this?” 

John only gives an “I dunno” look. 

“She’s an old friend,” Arthur fills in. His hands were on her face, giving light slaps to her cheeks. “Wake up, (Y/N). C’mon, wake up.” 

It takes a couple more slaps and shakes of her shoulders before she starts to groan. 

She’s slurring out what sound like curses and her hands going to her head. It was that it was discovered that this was not the first time she had been hit in the head. A large gash cut across the side of her forehead. It was fresh, bruising, and recently sewn shut. 

Eyes fluttering open, she looks up to bright sky poking through foliage and a familiar face. 

“Arthurrrr . . . wereeeen’t we juuuuuust innnnn . . ?” 

“We sure was. You got knocked out.” 

“Gooooood, it certainly feeeeels like it . . . ‘least I woke uuuup . . .” He helps her to get to her feet, her balance still in need of help. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat is heard.

“Care to fill us in, Arthur?” Though Dutch still hadn't gotten over what was found inside (or lack thereof), this old friend had certainly caught his attention.

“Sure, ” Arthur simply says. "Dutch, this is (Y/N) Crane. (Y/N), this is Dutch van der Linde."

Still a bit uneasy, the lady walks over to Dutch, throwing a shaky hand out.

"Pleasure, sir. How do you do?"

A smile breaks across Dutch's face. He accepts her hand with the good grace of a gentleman.

"It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, miss." 

They shake hands and Dutch, out of habit, bends down to give a kiss to her knuckles. She pulls her hand out before he could do that.

"Oh, that's alright, " she says clearing her throat and eyes looking away, "you don't need to do that." 

For her and everyone else's sake, he doesn't make any further comment on the matter. It's also only now that he sees that both her hands are wrapped in what looked like some cloth, maybe bandages judging by the blood soaking through.

"Miss Crane, you're a friend of our boy? An old friend, I understand."

(Y/N) giggles, turning around to see Arthur.

“That's really cute that you call me a friend, Arthur. We've only met once before and that was some 5 years ago.” 

Arthur shrugs.

“It's the truth. That one time we met was a hell of a time though, wouldn't you say?”

"Oh, absolutely! How could I forget a night where we drank, talked, and then caught one of the most wanted men in the area for a handsome bounty? All less than two hours too!"

“Was it less than two hours? Felt like a lot longer than that.”

"'Fraid so, cowboy. Though it certainly felt like a lifetime to me too." Smirking, she gives him a quick wink, one that could be easily missed. It made Arthur smirk back.

But then smirk falters to a frown.

"What happened to you by the way? 'Specially there?" Her face was covered in cuts and bruises, including a black eye and a split lip. But it was the gash on her forehead that raised the most concern. Upon further inspection, her clothes were dirty, torn in a few places, and of course, no shoes.

"Oh! That!, " (Y/N) raises a hand to it. "I-I uh...I don't remember. But I guess the gash itself is the reason why that is?"

"You don't remember?" he asks.

"Honestly no. I don't even know where I am. Wh-Where are we?"

Arthur looks over to the others, their faces giving him no hints, though Micah's is telling to him do whatever it is that'll spite him. That quickly helps him make up his mind. After a few words with Dutch, he turns to her.

"Maybe we should talk 'bout this back at camp."

* * *

  


The ride back to camp was short, but long enough to take in the scenery and exchange a word or two.

"That's Dutch, right? The Dutch you told me about?"

(Y/N) had taken up Arthur's request for her to ride with him, especially after hearing that she hadn't a horse herself. Her explanation simply being "I can’t remember where it is. I don’t even remember its name or what it looked like.” 

"Yup, that's him alright." Her arms were around his waist, holding on tightly, and embracing him close. It was so strange, so alien to him. 

She felt like a ghost.

(Y/N) huffs a laugh.

"He's exactly like you described him."

* * *

"Hosea! Come meet our new guest!" Dutch appeared to be high spirits since their return to Arthur's relief. This only meant he and the rest of his camp wouldn't have to hear his angry (sometimes drunken) complaints for the night. Especially for poor Molly. . . 

Hosea was near his tent with a book in hand. 

“Another one?” he said, eyes still on the page. “At this rate, Dutch, we might as well open an orphanage and made our money there.” 

“Very funny,” Dutch huffs. “I’ll have you know that this one is quite the character. She also happens to be a friend of Arthur’s.” Hosea looks up. 

“That so? He looks over to her. “So you're the ol’ friend.” 

The lady smiles and throws a hand out. “(Y/N) Crane. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Pleasure to meet you too, Ms. Crane,” Hosea says, standing up and shakes her hand. “Hosea Matthews.” 

“Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Matthews.” 

“Likewise. And how do you know our son here?” 

(Y/N) looks over to Arthur and he understands her message. He clears his throat. 

“It’s uh, long story, but we helped each other on a bounty some few years ago. We caught Lynwood Barker.” Dutch interjects. 

“Is that so?” he crosses his arms. “I remember that being the most sought out bounty of the time.” 

“It certainly was,” (Y/N) joins in with a light in her eyes. “You should’ve seen the look on everyone’s face when we turned him in. Especially when he was hanged.” 

“You watched him hang?” Arthur raises his brows. 

“Had to. I needed to see the end of him.” 

“And that uh . . . that girl?” 

“Sara?” She starts to smile wide and suddenly Arthur’s not sure of himself. 

“Yeah, what happened to her?” She’s obviously noticing. 

“After the hanging, I took her to a nearby town, gave her some of the bounty money, and told her to start over. I haven't seen her since but she sometimes writes to me when she can. Sara sounds much happier since then. She still thanks you for it too.” 

That was the cue to finally let go and smile back. 

“Glad to hear it.” 

* * *

With Dutch’s and Hosea’s insistence, (Y/N) goes off to see Ms. Grimshaw to help her clean up and to see Mr. Pearson for some food. In the meantime, Dutch took the opportunity to speak with Arthur. 

“Your friend, Ms. Crane, is certainly an interesting one.” 

“She sure is.” The two light a cigarette each and took a seat near Dutch’s tent. 

“So she’s a bounty hunter, I’m guessing?” Dutch exhales. 

“Yes, among other things.” Arthur shrugs. 

“Such as?” Dutch asks, looking over to him. 

“She’s told me about her long list of occupations. Boxer, ballet dancer, magician’s assistant-” 

“You’re pulling my chain!” 

“Oh, believe me. I’ve seen her make a cigarette disappear then knock out a man bigger than me.” 

A deep laugh rumbles from the back of Dutch’s throat. 

“Well then, she sounds perfect.” 

A few hours pass and several cigarettes are smoked and burned. Arthur had spent his time stretching his legs around camp and sketching in his journal. 

“Come on, Dutch. We’re not a charity!” 

He meets with Dutch, Hosea, and Micah near the unlit campfire, the sun still high but warning its retiring very soon. They sat in chairs and crates and Arthur takes his seat on the log next to them. 

Micah takes a swig of his whiskey bottle. He has been restless since their return to camp. “We already took Mrs. Adler, we don’t need another one.” 

“Another what?” (Y/N) questions, walking in with better spirits and a new pair of shoes. Probably one of the girls’. She quickly takes a seat next to Arthur on the log. 

Micah doesn’t answer as suddenly his whiskey bottle needs all his attention. 

“Don’t mind him,” Dutch waves a hand. “How do you feel, Ms. Crane?” 

“Much better, thank you.” She certainly looked it, Arthur thought. It reminded him of that night at the brothel, when she and Sara returned to turn in Barker. And to see her in the sunlight was something else.

From beneath his thoughts, (Y/N) continues speaking. 

“Ms. Grimshaw was gentle with me, even lending me a pair of shoes. She checked my wounds and was happy to see my gash was healing. Mr. Pearson was especially welcoming. He made an entire bowl of stew for me. It was lovely. The people here, Mr. Van der Linde and Mr, Matthews, are lovely. Thank you for bringing me here.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem, Ms. Crane,” said Dutch. “Do not mention it. Now then!” He clasps his hands together. “If you don’t mind, may we ask you a few questions?” 

“Sure, but only if I get to ask a question of mine first?” 

This captures the attention of everyone by the unlit fire. Dutch, though with raised brows, kept a straight face. It breaks into a smile. 

“Of course, miss. What would you like to ask?” 

“Are you lot outlaws?” 

For a short moment, no one says anything. 

Finally, Dutch speaks up. 

“. . . And if we were . . ?” 

Hands became itching, inching slowly to rifles and pistols. Eyes remained hard on the target. 

(Y/N) kept her gaze on Dutch. For an armless woman, she was bold . . . and possibly idiotic. 

“I’m afraid nothing else would happen. All would transpire is acknowledgment . . .” 

Another moment passes. 

“We very much are, Ms. Crane.” 

(Y/N) turns to Arthur and slaps him on the bicep. 

“Ha! I fucking knew it!” she starts cackling, nearly falling off the log. “Cowboy, my ass!” 

The tension was gone. Arthur doesn’t realize that held his breath nearly the entire time. It was until she had hit him and laughed that he let go, even joining her in a chuckle. _ I need a cigarette . . . _

“Will that be an issue, Ms. Crane?” Hosea asks. “Us bein’ outlaws, I mean.” 

“Not at all,” she wipes the tears from her eyes. “If anything, it makes me feel more at home to be with you all.” 

“Oh, you an outlaw yourself there, Crane?” Arthur couldn’t help as he took a pack of cigarettes out. 

“That’s what they tell me,” she shrugs. “It’s a long story. Too keep things short, I killed someone and men in suits, law-abiding and otherwise, got very upset with me. I haven’t been able to return to New England since then.” 

“Well then. You’ll be perfect here,” Dutch shares her smile along with Arthur and Hosea. 

Micah was still occupied by his bottle. 

They all remained by the unlit fire until it was needed to be lit. During their time, Dutch got to ask his questions. 

“Do you mind if you tell us about yourself? More in particular, what happened to you?” He gestures to the gash on her head. 

“That’s a-” (Y/N) huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “That’s a bit of a trick question. I don’t remember what happened.” 

“You don’t remember?” It slips out of Arthur. She shakes her head. 

“No. I remember who I am, where I came from, and what I came to be. I remember you, Mr. Morgan, but this,” her fingers go to the cut that tore apart her skin on her forehead. “I don’t remember how I got that.” 

“What’s the last thin’ you remember?” asks Hosea, leaning over with his elbows and on his knees. 

“I . . .” she closes her eyes as if to search for her memories of yesterday and beyond in the dark. “I remember being in Chicago . . . I had a job there. Something loud and . . . something warm. But after that . . .” she rubs her eyes. They wait for her to continue, only to her to open her eyes wide and straight. “Wait! Tell me it’s still March! If not April!” 

The men look amongst themselves, looking for the right words for one another. 

Or simply because they didn’t want to be the one who broke the news. 

Hosea decides upon himself to be the one, clearing his throat beforehand. 

“Ah, dear. It’s neither March or April. It’s May.” 

“May?!” She shoots up, as if the words stuck her to her feet. She throws her arms up, and pauses, and then silently sits back down. 

“I’ve lost . . . two months . . .” it’s mostly to herself, but Arthur hears it. 

Much to his surprise, his dumb mouth says something. 

“Hey,” he whispers back, “don’t worry. We’ll all help you out.” 

(Y/N) looks up to him and he sees the fog in her eyes, a lost soul in need of answers. 

“God, I hope so.” 

* * *

Dutch takes a little bit of his and (Y/N)’s time for another question or two.

“So, what exactly were you doing there? The cabin, I mean.” He held a stare her as if she held the answers inside herself. 

“The cabin?” (Y/N) tilted her head. “I happened upon it. I was just looking for things, though I was certain wouldn’t find much considering how it looked. After . . . this,” she gestures to her head, “I had nothing. I was robbed. All my belongings were missing, including my horse and my shoes for some reason.” She makes a face. She continues on.

“I was hoping to find any little thing. Food, medicine, a place to stay? Then I saw the body and thought otherwise. I was up on the attic still searching, when i heard you all approaching. I pulled back the ladder and door and hid. That’s when Mr. Morgan found me.” 

“Do you have any affiliation with the O’Driscolls?” 

(Y/N) made another face, this one nearly making Arthur laugh. 

  
“Ahh . . . I-I don’t know what an O’Driscoll is. Is like that gang or something? You still haven’t told me where I am by the way.” 

“You’re in New Hanover, dear,” Hosea takes the hit. 

“New Hanover?! Jesus Christ!” She obviously didn’t handle it well. “How in the hell did I end up here?!”

The next few hours pass and night falls. 

Arthur stays on the log near the campfire by himself, taking the time to himself to journal and for once, relax. Or as best as he could. 

He loved the crackle and warmth of the fire. It was memorizing and full of life, unlike him. It was company within company. 

He sighs, remembering earlier that day thanks for the pages in his journal. It was sad and pathetic that he even wrote it. The page would remain, his eyes staying on it, never leave either from the journal or his memory. 

Again with the past . . . 

.

.

.

_ Where’s (Y/N)? _

The thought crosses his mind more than once or twice. He even allowed himself to devote a page for her. It’s a mostly blank page that simply said _ she’s back. . . _along with a sketch of her. The change of moods between her and Mary hurt his heart.

She and the rest of the men had left him alone, all busying themselves doing other things. (Y/N) was enjoying herself, enjoying the company, introducing herself and learning names.

“Hi, my name’s (Y/N).” 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m (Y/N) Crane.” 

“(Y/N) Crane, how do you do?” 

He checks up every so often to see where she is and how she’s doing. They seem to like her well, esp Abigail. The two spent some time talking about god knows what at her tent. It was nice to see the two of them smile. 

It’s getting late and Arthur figures he should get ready for tomorrow. At his tent, he takes the time to resharpen his knives, oil his guns, and reload on ammo and essentials he might be needing. His mind is silent for once, the background noises of the night drown all thoughts away. There is nothing for him. 

“You wanna see me fight?” 

_ Shit . . . _

_ Was that (Y/N)? _

“And what do you reckon I fight?” 

_ Yeah, that’s her. Doesn’t sound too good. _Then again her tone of voice wasn’t a threatening one. It sounded more like humor.

“How ‘bout me?” 

_ No wait, this is great. _

_ That _was Micah. 

The two of them were at the campfire behind Arthur’s tent. They stood between the seats and in front of the fire itself, hiding as shadows as the blaze lit the crowd around them. He sees Uncle, Karen, John, and Javier seated while Bill, Lenny, Dutch, and Hosea stood on the outskirts. He joins the latter group. 

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Micah heard she used to fight,” Lenny says, eyes still on them. “And now he’s been pokin’ at her for one.” 

“Ah,” he nods. “He’s gonna lose.” 

“You think so?” Lenny pries away to look at him. 

“Nah, Micah’ll overpower her,” it’s Bill. “Stands no chance on this bastard.” 

“You bet, big man? I’ll take the new girl and you Micah?” 

“I bet you 5.” 

“Deal!” 

Arthur leans over to Lenny, whispering, “should’ve bet more.” 

“You certain?” (Y/N) says. There’s an expression on her face up close that reads that she was sure he didn’t mean it. 

“More than I ever been, girlie.” He’s laughing and she shrugs and smiles. 

“Alright. Let’s get to it, then.” 

“Now now,” Dutch steps in, “let’s not get hasty here.” 

“Nonsense, Mr. Van der Linde,” (Y/N) waves a hand. “I’ve been doing this for years. Arthur can vouch for me, isn’t that right, Mr. Morgan.” 

Arthur looks over to Dutch. 

“She’ll be fine. It’s her opponent that I’m more worried about.” 

“What was that, cowpoke?” Micah yells at him, rolling up his sleeves. 

“Oh, you heard me just fine, Micah.” He couldn’t wait. 

“You ready Mr. Bell?” (Y/N) had her hands up, wrapped like the day he first saw her, on a night like this. 

“Oh, angel. You’re just stealing my heart over here!” It’s uncertain if he’s had too many or was as sober as he ever been since he started this bout. Either way, he was enjoying himself wholeheartedly. “In fact. How ‘bout you give the first swing?” 

She was no longer smiling, her hands fall to her side. 

“You want me to hit first? You sure?” 

“Of course, angel. Didn’t I tell you?” 

“Idiot,” Arthur huffs a laugh. (Y/N)’s laughing too. 

"You did, but I just wanted to double-check.” Her hands are back up. “Now do me the absolute favor and stand very still for me, Mr. Bell. I'll be as swift as I can for you since you've been such a gentleman to me."

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, her feet ran after them.

The dirt flies behind her and her body bends with the energy of the wind. In the blur of fire and darkness, her arm is cocked back like the hammer of a revolver, ready to fire.

And like a marksman, she aims and shoots.

Not a single one of them could react, not even Micah, as her fist collides to his jaw. It's perfect, if not damn near it.

All her strength and agility goes into those five knuckles and its enough.

She stops running and Micah hits the floor.

"Holy shit," Dutch runs to him. 

Arthur is in stitches. Karen and John are cackling. Hosea is applauding. And so is Javier and Uncle. Lenny is cheering and teasing a now upset Bill whose hands are already in his pockets to keep his promise.

"You weren't kidding, son," Hosea said, eyes still glued to the scene. "That was a sight alright."

Arthur's wheezing by the time he comes back.

"That might just be the most beautiful damn thing I ever did saw. Nice work, Ms. Crane."

She was walking over to them, hand now stained in blood. Shaking them, she smiles. 

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan. You flatter me."

"I'd have to agree with Arthur, here," Hosea says with a wide smile. “You’d lovely asset to our gang if you’d join.” 

(Y/N)'s smiling wide along them. That is until she starts to hear Dutch behind her. He’s barking orders, pointing and demanding people to help him with Micah.

"You think Dutch is gonna kick me out now?" She asks the two. Their smiles never left.

"I think you'll be fine," Hosea simply says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any kudo or comment means a lot, no matter how so small or as long as you want. Find me on Tumblr @little-box-of-flower-pots. Lots of love <3


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